First, to my readers. The last year has been a delight, getting e-mails and knowing that you are looking forward to the publication of this book. Your enthusiasm has kept me writing, and I thank you for it.

Thanks to Dr. Mary J. Gombash, MD, who patiently sat and let me ask her question after question over lunch. I think I ‘what if d’ her to death. Thanks must also go to my cousin, Cindi Young, who shared her love of horses with me. She gave this city girl a bit of insight and I deeply appreciate it. To Barbara Doane, who shared with me her love of natural dyes and fabrics, and then found out the hard way why it isn’t a good idea to loan me books. Sorry, Barb.

But for all the help that I’ve received, and all the re-search that I’ve done, any mistakes are my fault, and mine alone. I am perfectly capable of making horrible and embarrassing errors without any assistance.

The members of my writer’s group, who told me all the painful truths that a writer needs to hear. This group consists of Spencer Luster, Helen Kourous, Robert Wenzlaff, Marc Tassin, Keith Flick, and Mike Szymkowiak.

Once again, Kandace Klumper, Patricia Merritt, and JoAnn Thompson were essential to the process, offering me constant reassurance and support. Tom Redding and Mary Fry read the final drafts, catching more mistakes than I care to mention. Phil Fry, Cathie Hansen, and Deb Spychalski are my long suffering co-workers, and I thank them for their love, support and patience.

I can’t say enough about the contribution that my editor, Anna Genoese, has made to this book. Every time she makes a suggestion the story grows stronger and richer. And my deep thanks go to Heather Brady, my copy editor.

But once again, most of all, credit must go to Jean Rabe, who pushed me into the pool, and to Meg Davis, who found me there.

“Bloodmoss! That’s bloodmoss, Marcus!” I leaned over, trying to get a better look. I was positive that the grubby little plant I was seeing passing under the hooves of the horse was the rare herb. “Let me down!”

The horse we were riding danced as my weight shifted and Marcus tightened up the reins. “If you don’t stop wiggling, you’re gonna tumble off, and embarrass Hisself and me.” Marcus groused as the horse pranced under us.

I tightened my grip on his waist. “If you let me ride by myself, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

He huffed. “You can’t ride worth a damn, and your feet remain sore. Now sit still! How would it look, the Warprize sprawled in the dirt?”

“Marcus, I am a Master Healer and my feet are healing fine.”

“You know from nothing,” Marcus growled. “I will judge if the Warprize is fit to walk.”

I settled back, frustrated. I might be Xylara, Master Healer, Daughter of the House of Xy, Queen of Xy, Warprize of Keir of the Tribe of the Cat, Warlord of the Plains, but as far as Marcus was concerned I was little more than an unruly child. I sighed, and leaned my head on the back of his shoulder. “I can ride just fine.”

Marcus snorted. “About as well as you tend your own feet.”

Therein lay one of my problems. When I’d made the decision to follow the Warlord’s army, I’d done so in the same garb I’d worn for the original claiming ceremony. Since tradition required that the Warprize accept nothing except from the hand of the Warlord, I had walked barefoot behind the army for some time before Keir had discovered what I was doing and reclaimed me. Following my Warlord, challenging his decision, had been the best choice, both for us and for our peoples.

Choosing to walk barefoot had not been quite so clever.

Joden, in training as a Singer, said that by choosing to honor the traditions of the Plains, I had made a powerful statement, one that would ring in the songs he was crafting. Marcus had arched his one eyebrow over his remaining eye, and inquired if the fact that my feet had sickened afterwards would be in the first verse or the second.

I straightened slowly, craning my neck to look around, careful not to disturb the horse this time. We were at the center of the Firelander Army, returning to the Plains. Not that Keir’s people called themselves ‘Firelanders’. That was a term my people used. Keir’s people used ‘of the Plains’ which sounded awkward to my ears. In my thoughts, at least, they remained the Firelanders. Of course, I no longer add ‘cursed’ or ‘evil’ or thought that they belched fire. I still had hopes of seeing a blue one, though. There were brown ones, and black ones, and some even had a yellow tinge to their skin. Who knew what further wonders awaited me on the Plains?

Xy was really a large, wide mountain valley, that spread out all around us. I’d never been this far from Water’s Fall before, never seen the furthest reaches of what was now my kingdom. The trees were starting to turn, their colors all laid out below us as we traveled.

Marcus and I were surrounded by horses and riders, which spilled out beyond the road as we rode. Keir had ordered that I travel at the center of this moving mass of warriors and horses. Even so, I knew that my guards would not be far away. Rafe and Prest were ahead of us, I could just see their backs. “Rafe!”

Marcus jerked his head under the hood of his cloak, and muttered. Fall was upon us, but the day was fine, and the sun warm on our backs. But not for Marcus. He’d suffered horrible burns at sometime in the past that had left him disfigured, taking away his left eye and burning his left ear completely away. So Marcus always rode cloaked, wrapped well lest the skies be offended by his scars. Yet another aspect of these people that I didn’t understand.

Rafe turned and waved, and he and Prest slowed their mounts so that we could catch up with them. Marcus grumbled, but maneuvered his horse between them.

“Rafe, see that plant?” I tried to point it out to him as we moved.

“Plant?” Rafe looked in confusion at the ground. “Warprize…”

“The pale one; the one that looks like moss, but it’s butter-colored.”

Rafe shrugged. “Wouldn’t it be easier to pick it yourself?”

I rolled my eyes in frustration. “Marcus won’t stop!”

Rafe let his laughter ring out, then Prest reached over and grabbed the halter of our horse. Marcus exclaimed bitterly, but Prest guided us out of the crush. I had to smile, even in my frustration. Rafe always had a grin for me. He was a smaller man, thin, with fair skin and deep black hair and brown eyes. Quite a contrast to my other guard, Prest. Prest was much larger, and a quiet one, with skin of brown, and black hair in twenty thick braids that fell to the center of his back. More a man of action than words, he calmly guided the horses off to the side, where we could stop.